Hey, all you handstamps and wristbands. I am going to do it. I am going to attempt a real blog. I unearthed one of my old Xanga notebooks circa 2004. It might be assumed that I would have the privilege of saying something to the effect of, “Man I was stupid back then.” The sad reality is that I was probably smarter. And braver. And any other positive -er adjective you can think of. Oh, wait. I’m starting to get into the topic of my blog. Right, then, let me get to it.
Be easy.
Time Traveler Straddler
I am afraid. I am dying.
Well, in the philosophical sense that we are all dying. Despite my most juvenile efforts (that is to say my efforts at maintaining youthfulness), I have come face to face with my own mortality. I have a torso composed of street hotdogs and obscene smelling chicken and rice from the Halal lunch carts.
Yes, it was my slow metabolism afflicted gut that promptly informed me that I am not a kid anymore. In fact, I am way past kid. It was a sad day when I had to give up the “-teen” suffix and now shortly I’ll be losing the “twenty-” prefix.
*shudders*
19 really doesn’t seem that long ago and because I so firmly straddle the past and the present, I am left quite disoriented.
For instance, I have no accurate gauge of how old people are. People I meet through work oftentimes seem old as hell to me. It’s a big shock to the system when I later find that they are around my age. Young bucks whom I encounter I think to be around my age, only to find out that while they were eating Corn Pops and watching Power Rangers, I was crushing chicks in the club. Well, not so much crushing chicks at the club but more crushing on chicks… in 10th grade Latin Club.
Aside from the fact that my body is reluctant to part with the processed meats I ingest and clings to it like a young girl to her first relationship that is swiftly dying because boyfriend is going to college where it’s a hot girl buffet, and my inability to distinguish a milf from a prom queen, there are other telltale signs that I’m getting older.
Practicality has become a priority in my life. There was a time when I could go more than a month without wearing the same outfit (with the exception of underwear of course. Who has 60 pairs of underwear? Oh… girls). Now, I’ve whittled the wardrobe down to about 3 pairs of jeans, a few button downs, some tees, and 3 pairs of shoes (1 pair of sneakers, 1 pair of work, and 1 dress). That’s pretty much what’s in rotation. It seems I’d rather scrimp all my pennies together in the hopes of one day having enough for a downpayment on a condo, than being all flossed out at the next birthday party at Applebees. Sheesh.
Then there’s culture. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of hearing “Back in the day… kickin’ it old school” preface a song on the radio that’s still on one of my current ipod playlists. I don’t listen to the radio and have considered referencing Now That’s What I Call Music just to stay up to date. Pathetic. Also, the fact that I have to visit urbandictionary.com several times just to be able to decipher someone’s blog is disheartening.
As old age creeps up on me, I can’t help but lose my train of thought in the middle of writing this blog. What else did I want to say? Maybe I need a nap. I nap like I should be wearing cardigans and a hearing aid and taking out my teeth and putting them in a glass of water at night. Dreamy.
So what really prompted this blog? Perhaps the current marriage epidemic that has engulfed and ravaged my peers. Perhaps it’s the fact that switching careers at this stage has put me in a regressed mindstate. Well, whatever the case may be I have acquired one bit of wisdom along my arduous travels. And that is we must treat life like a girl with a heavy menstrual cycle at a good ass freestyle battle and just go with the flow. So, age back down. You can’t fade me like an afro.
jae1775 